(by Daniel R. Jones)
Never mind
the Winter Solstice
passed and it’s no
longer Fall.
In the corner
of my three-season porch
Autumn’s last leaves
hang, entwined in a spider’s web.
Sienna- umber- ochre-
colored leaves
frozen
in mid-air,
like Autumn itself
in suspended
animation.
Help me, reader.
There’s a poem in there, somewhere,
but I haven’t quite worked it out.
Come Spring-cleaning,
stiff bristles will brush
the cobwebs from the walls.
I pass the arrangement
each morning
as I zip
up my coat.
Help me, reader.
Before I swish the display
out the screen door,
ephemera freed
from my mind.
Could you lend me
some meaning?
Meet me midway,
won’t you?
